


an honorable man

by orphan_account



Series: qui pro domina justitia sequitur [2]
Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M, Office Sex, Political Intrigue, Power Dynamics, Unrequited Love, if this gets more than three hits i will be shocked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 20:18:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10974630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: He has a feeling he's not going to stop calling him Mr. Comey anytime soon.





	an honorable man

It's late when Andy enters the Director's office to drop off the latest brief. He is, admittedly, a little shocked when he sees that the man himself is there but he knows he shouldn't, not really. At the FBI, you're always married to the job first, and everything else comes second.

"Sir," Andy greets, almost casually, "I have that brief you wanted."

Mr. Comey looks up from his computer. His fingers twirl around a fountain pen and he smiles, just a little, when his eyes meet Andy's. "Thank you, McCabe," he says. "You could've brought it tomorrow, you know."

"I know," Andy replies, "but, well, I was already here and I had no reason to wait until tomorrow when I could just do it today.”

“That’s a fair point,” Mr. Comey concedes. He extends his hand and Andy steps forward to give him the files. His eyes wander, unintentionally, over to the computer screen, where a video of yesterday’s events seem to be playing out – President Trump, calling Mr. Comey over, giving him an awkward hug and an even more awkward kiss.

Mr. Comey follows his gaze and lets out a slow sigh. “Does it look that bad?” he asks.

Andy isn’t one to mince words, and so he doesn’t. “It looks pretty bad, sir.”

“Yeah, I thought so too,” Mr. Comey shakes his head. He sets the files down before him but doesn’t look through them yet, just stares at the cover. His arm is on the desk and he rests his head against the back of his hand, still holding the pen. “That was definitely _not_ the way I wanted that to go.”

“He seemed pretty intent on calling you out and personally greeting you,” Andy notes. _Maybe because we all but handed him the election, as inadvertent as it was,_ he thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. He knows how long Mr. Comey spent languishing over that decision and the repercussions, even as they were continuing now. But, in his decision not to say that, he ends up saying something else he’d meant to keep to himself.

“Do you think he’ll fire you?” he asks, honestly and genuinely concerned.

Mr. Comey shrugs. “I don’t know,” he admits. “He’s given me no indication yet that he’s considering it yet – quite the opposite, in fact. And the _New York Times_ claims he actually dislikes firing people.”

“Alternative facts,” Andy counters, smiling a little when Mr. Comey lets out the slightest of chuckles. He’s about to say something when his phone buzzes, and he doesn’t have to check it to know what it likely is. He sighs. “I have to start heading out now if I want to get home before late.”

“The sun does look like it’s heading down,” Mr. Comey agrees. He turns his head a little to look out his office window before turning back to him. “Thanks for the briefs, I’ll try to review them by tomorrow.”

“Of course, sir,” Andy replies. “Have a nice night.” He steps out of the office and releases the breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He’s been working with Mr. Comey for almost a year now and he’s barely managed to start calling him plain old Comey in his thoughts, let alone when it's just the two of them around.

He’s imposing, of course he is, all six feet and eight inches of him, but there’s no reason Andy should feel intimidated by him – he’s a kind man, a warm man, a good man, an honorable man.

Andy has a feeling he’s not going to stop calling him Mr. Comey anytime soon and he walks back to his office to start getting ready to leave.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andy knocks before he enters and waits until he hears Mr. Comey’s voice. He opens the door and sees him in there, at his desk once again, scribbling almost furiously down on some official stationary. It’s probably a memo, and Andy has a pretty good guess as to what it’s about.

He asks anyway. “Is this about the dinner yesterday?”

Mr. Comey sets the pen down and looks up, eyes soft and face lined with exhaustion. He seems to be aging a year with each passing day, ever since the election, and someday soon, he might be turned to dust. He rubs the bridge of his nose and lets out a sigh.

Andy steps forward and takes a seat across from him. His files are in his lap and he pauses as he sets them on the desk, looking at what Mr. Comey has written. He could read the upside-down words if he tried, but instead he focuses on the handwriting itself, the succinct lettering and the calculated curves.

“I never really understood why you wrote your memos by hand _and_ have an aide type them out,” Andy says. It’s not a truthful statement but he wants to distract Mr. Comey, just a little, enough to cheer him up. Even if it’s only for a moment.

And it works because the corners of Mr. Comey’s mouth quirk and his eyes light up. “You know cybersecurity isn’t our country’s strongest suit,” he says. “Best to have more than one record, and, well, writing it out helps me relax a little.”

“I see,” Andy says, smiling lightly. He’s about ready get up when the smile slips from Mr. Comey’s face and he sighs again.

“I never seem to be able to relax nowadays,” he says, slowly. “It’s barely been a week since the inauguration and already, I feel like I’ve spent hundreds of years as director of the bureau.” He leans back in his chair, expression lost and distant. “There’s not a moment of reprieve, you know?”

“I think I know,” Andy says, even though he doesn’t think he does. Mr. Comey looks so tired, so tense, and the offer is out of Andy’s mouth before he can stop himself. “A massage might help.”

Mr. Comey raises a brow and focuses in on Andy. “A massage?” he repeats.

 _Oh, god, why did I say that?_ Andy thinks, but he defends his statement anyway. “I’m serious,” he says. “It might alleviate some of the tension in your body, make it easier to focus on the work at hand.” He pauses, then adds for good measure, “I’m a triathlete, I know these things.”

To his surprise, Mr. Comey lets out a full laugh. He shakes his head with a chuckle and says, “All right, McCabe, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Andy nods. He pulls off his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair, rolling up his sleeves as he walks over behind the desk and behind Mr. Comey. He’s just wearing a casual shirt, buttons loose and lacking a tie. It seemed strange to Andy back when Mr. Comey first started out but now, after some time, he’s really used to it. It suits him, pun not intended, looking like a man of the people.

There are plenty of points of tension on Mr. Comey and Andy is careful not to exacerbate any of them. He moves decisively and carefully, careful to prevent his hands from lingering anywhere for too long. Mr. Comey’s body, while not spectacularly muscular, is fairly well-defined and surprisingly smooth, even through the shirt. His legs are folded under the desk, and Andy traces his fingers down the small of his back.

Mr. Comey hums softly. “That’s good,” he says. His eyes are shut and his face looks lighter than it has in months and Andy doesn’t realize he’s staring until Mr. Comey opens his eyes and looks up at him and something shifts. Andy’s hands are still on his back and his lips are slightly parted and he doesn’t know what’s going to happen next.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The phone on Mr. Comey’s desk rings and they both move, almost too quickly. Andy clears his throat and rolls down his sleeves while Mr. Comey straightens out his shirt. “I should probably take this,” he says.

“Of course, sir,” Andy replies, casually as possible. He pulls on his coat and is just about ready to head out when Mr. Comey holds up the memo.

“Would you mind handing this over on your way out?” he asks. He looks a little sheepish for asking Andy to do something so menial, but Andy shakes his head.

“Of course not,” Andy says. He walks back and their fingers brush, slightly, as he takes the file. Something shits again and for a brief moment, he feels his heart beat. He doesn’t know why and, quite frankly, he probably shouldn’t be thinking of why.

“Thank you for the massage,” Mr. Comey says, all of a sudden.

Andy nods firmly. “It was no problem, sir,” he says. His mouth feels so dry. He nods again and steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t walk further, though, just standing outside Mr. Comey’s door and just breathing for a few moments.

Why the fuck did he do that?

He almost forgets the memo is in his hands until his fingers start to clench and the paper rustles, and he looks down to read it. It’s supposed to be more of a distraction than anything, really, and that’s exactly what happens because Andy forgets everything that just happened when he reads that President Trump – the man whose campaign they’re still investigating – asked Mr. Comey – the director of the FBI – for his loyalty.

Andy’s torn between feeling outraged and feeling exhausted, and he walks over to find an aide to type this up. Briefly, he wonders why Mr. Comey didn’t just tell him about it immediately after it happened, but he doesn’t wonder on that for very long.

He trusts Mr. Comey. He’s sure he had his reasons, whatever they are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Things are still moving rather slowly with the Russia probe and with the dismissal of Flynn, Andy thinks they should probably speed things up a little bit. He’s sure Mr. Comey is bound to agree with him, except that when he enters Mr. Comey’s office, he finds him leaning against his desk with a drink in his hands and a scowl on his face.

“He’s insane,” Mr. Comey says, point blank.

Andy blinks and racks his head. “The President?” he asks, because there’s no one he can think of who could illicit such a comment from someone as amiable as Mr. Comey.

Mr. Comey nods. “I cannot believe a man that unintelligent holds the highest office in the nation,” he says, taking a long sip of something amber and likely alcoholic.

“What happened?”

He’s directed to a sheet of paper on Mr. Comey’s desk and he skims through it – a memo, already typed up and documented, about the latest meeting Mr. Comey had with the President. His mouth is hanging open when he finishes reading and he looks up to see Mr. Comey staring out the window, motionless and expressionless.

“He asked you to stop the probe?” Andy asks. He’s not sure if he’s effectively conveyed his incredulity, because Mr. Comey is right, this man is _insane_. He clears his throat. “I haven’t been a lawyer in a while,” he says, “but I am pretty sure this qualifies as obstruction of justice.”

“I’m not sure the President knew that,” Mr. Comey says. He finishes his glass and shakes his head. “This is not the way I wanted today to go.”

Almost belatedly, Andy realizes what day it is – Valentine’s. “You and your wife have dinner plans?”

“Just a night in,” Mr. Comey says. He plops down into his chair and sighs. “But I’m not sure if I can make it to a night like that, what with what’s just happened today. It’s all I can think about and I don’t think it’s fair to Patrice if I bring all of this home on a night like today.”

“You could try clearing your head somehow?” Andy says. He knows it’s a pathetic response but he doesn’t like seeing Mr. Comey like this, all distraught and anxious and upset. He looks so tired and Andy wishes he could do something to help.

Mr. Comey shakes his head but there’s a certain fondness to his gaze when he looks up at Andy, and something else. “I don’t think I’d say no to another massage at this point, unless you’ve got something else in mind,” he says. He sounds like he means to be humorous but there’s something to the way he says it instead, something that shifts the atmosphere of the room and shifts something between the two of them.

Andy walks around the desk, steps muffled by the carpeting but somehow drowning out the noises of the outside. Mr. Comey turns his chair to face him, legs long and casually spread, and Andy kneels down between them. No words are exchanged between them – hell, Andy isn’t even sure he’s breathing, really – as he unzips Mr. Comey’s trousers and pulls out his dick. It’s only half hard right now, but that’s enough for Andy to know that they’re on the same page and that they both want to do this. Whatever it is.

He doesn’t remove his glasses when he starts, and he starts with his hands, rubbing up and down his shaft. He’s not trying to intentionally draw it out, not trying to make this a sexy experience or a power play or anything. He just wants to make Mr. Comey forget, even for a moment.

Mr. Comey doesn’t look down, head leaned back as he lets out a slow breath. His hands are at his sides but one of them twitches slightly in Andy’s direction, before finally settling on his head and grabbing lightly at his hair.

Andy waits until he’s fully hard and doesn’t pause to consider before leaning forward and taking Mr. Comey in his mouth. He can’t take it all in, not really, but Mr. Comey’s grip tightens and he lets out a slight gasp. He tastes like salt and cum and Andy breathes through his nose.

He does his best, tongue moving around as he sucks and tries taking him in deeper. His own dick starts aching a little, still confined, and it only gets worse when Mr. Comey starts loosening up and getting a little more vocal.

Mr. Comey moans and Andy swallows him down without even thinking. He moves his head back and rests it on the side of Mr. Comey’s thigh and takes a few deep breaths from his mouth. Mr. Comey’s hand is still on his head and he gently runs his fingers through his hair.

Andy thinks he could stay like this for the rest of the night.

They don’t, of course. He gets up after a few moments, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as Mr. Comey fixes his appearance and stands up, towering over Andy as usual. His cell phone buzzes and he looks down at it with a slight frown before turning to Andy, pausing a moment. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then just puts his hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze before heading out of the room.

Andy isn’t sure how long he stays there, in that room, alone, until he heads out as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The first time he and Mr. Comey speak after, well, _that incident_ , it’s Mr. Comey asking that Andy head to the White House with him, since yesterday’s briefing turned out to be completely insane. Andy agrees, because of course he does, and they ride together in the same car.

Andy can’t focus at all, though. His head feels like it’s spinning and his lips feel like they’re tingling and he woke up extra early to get to the office in time to go with Mr. Comey to the meeting so he’s running on almost no sleep because he barely slept last night because he couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Comey –

And all of this is just justification for what’s about to happen next.

Reince Priebus is standing right next to him and he’s saying something, but Andy isn’t paying attention at all. Mr. Comey is showing some documents to the President and all Andy can think about is how absolutely _stupid_ this President is and how he has no idea how to keep his own campaign safe from outside influences, let alone the government, and how the fact that he’s now become the President is complete and utter bullshit.

“It’s BS,” Andy mumbles under his breath.

Beside him, Priebus says, “Oh, thank _god._ ”

Andy blinks and turns his head. “Wait, what?”

“I _knew_ that story in the _Times_ was fake,” Priebus continues, as though he hadn’t heard him. He shakes his head solemnly. “We’re getting crushed by all these reports from, you know…”

“The feeding frenzy of the liberal media cucks,” Bannon pipes up. He’s beside Priebus but engaged with some files – files that Andy isn’t really sure he should have access too.

“Thanks, Steve,” Priebus pats his arm, then focuses back on Andy. “So, is there anything we can do to push back, somehow? Maybe you could say something – you as in the Bureau, I mean.”

Andy blinks again. _Oh, shit_ , he thinks, because he’s pretty sure he’s just accidentally done something illegal. He sees Mr. Comey starting to stand out of the corner of his eye and he clears his throat. “I… have to go, Mr. Priebus.”

“Wait, McCabe, but…” Priebus trails off rather sadly as Andy quickly goes over to Mr. Comey and the two of them start to head out of the Oval Office. Andy thinks he’s home free by the time they get into the car, but then his phone buzzes and what do you know, it’s Reince Priebus.

He lets out a slow sigh and picks up. “Yes?”

“McCabe, please,” Priebus says, almost begging, “throw me a bone here. Come on, it’s like Steve said, we’re being attacked consistently and if there’s anything – _anything_ – the Bureau can say to help us combat this, we’d really appreciate it.”

It takes Andy a couple of moments to think of a statement to reply. “Uh, well, you see, Reince,” he starts out, then clears his throat. “We’d love to help, but we can’t get into the position of making statements on every story. I hope you understand.” And then, because he knows Priebus is going to try and fight him on this, as feeble as his attempts may be, he hangs up.

He manages to go a couple of seconds with Mr. Comey’s concerned gaze on him before he presses his face into his hands and says, “Oh, _shit_.”

“What happened?” Mr. Comey asks, voice soft yet concerned.

Andy pauses a moment, not sure if he should unnecessarily implicate Mr. Comey in, well, whatever this is, but it all spills out anyway and he explains that he might have accidentally told Priebus that the _New York Times_ story was a farce.

“BS,” Mr. Comey repeats. He shakes his head a little and then says, “I’ll deal with it.”

“No, I can fix it,” Andy replies quickly. “I’m really sorry, sir, I can’t believe I did that. I can –”

“Andy,” Mr. Comey cuts him off. He puts a hand on his shoulder and bends down a little to look him in the eye. “It’s all right. It’s just a mistake. I’ll deal with it, okay?”

Andy’s tongue darts out and he licks his lip nervously. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, slowly.

Mr. Comey shakes his head. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Andy.” He removes his hand only when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, but Andy feels its warmth for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The Director wants to see you in his office,” Mr. Comey’s chief of staff tells Andy.

Andy raises a brow. “I thought he was leaving.”

“He didn’t get on the helicopter – there was a phone call from the President.” He pauses. “Mr. Comey said it was urgent.”

“I’ll be right there,” Andy promises. He’s not sure what on Earth it could be about, so he grabs some of his files on the Russia probe and walks over as quickly as he can.

Except when he gets to his office, Mr. Comey isn’t sitting at his desk and waiting for files. He’s standing by the door and locks it once Andy’s inside. He takes the files out of his hands and sets them aside.

“McCabe,” he says, then, “Andy.”

Andy swallows hard. “Yes, sir?”

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’ right now,” Mr. Comey says. He pauses a moment. “Andy,” he says again, “would you be comfortable helping me relieve some stress again?”

“Yes,” Andy replies. He doesn’t even hesitate. That should say something about him but he doesn’t bother to linger on it just this moment.

Mr. Comey nods. “Stand by the desk and close your eyes.”

Andy does. He feels his glasses being taken off and then his hands are placed on the edge of the desk and his body adjusted. And then, he feels his pants and underwear being pushed down to his ankles. There’s the crumpling of something plastic and distinct, and then –

And then, Mr. Comey’s fingers are making their way inside his ass. Andy squeezes the desk and sharply inhales. The feeling is sharp and something he’s completely unused to, but Mr. Comey has a hand on his back and he keeps Andy grounded in the moment.

“It’s okay,” Mr. Comey says softly, breathing in his ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

Andy’s sigh turns into a moan when Mr. Comey removes his fingers, brushing against his prostate, and it’s not soon before it’s replaced with his dick. Andy gasps, hands aching, body pressing against the intrusion, and he bites the bottom of his lip to keep himself from screaming.

Mr. Comey shushes him gently, his hands gently squeezing at his hips and rubbing in gentle circles. “It’s okay, Andy,” he says again. “Do you want me to keep fucking you?”

“Yes,” Andy breathes. “Yes, please, J – Jim.” He almost forgets not to call him ‘sir’, but it feels natural in the moment. To be used like this, for him to relax, given the circumstances.

Mr. Comey starts out slowly, moving in and out in a steady rhythm until Andy’s surprised gasps turn into low moans. He starts going faster then, fingers almost bruising Andy’s side before he moves them down to his dick and starts to jerk him off.

Andy’s eyes are still closed and it just gives everything a surreal feel, as though it’s not even happening. As though it’s a dream. He imagines Mr. Comey, face flushed, breathing heavily, fucking Andy against the desk with the windows open and for everyone to see. He imagines him trailing his lips down the side of his neck and biting down and leaving bruises and making him his because that’s what he is, because Andy is loyal to the Constitution and he’s loyal to Mr. Comey and –

And he spills into Mr. Comey’s hands, right before Mr. Comey comes inside of him. Mr. Comey waits until his breathing has evened out before pulling out and pulling up Andy’s clothes, as Andy opens his eyes and puts his glasses back on.

His face feels flushed and heated, and he takes a deep breath. He opens his mouth but Mr. Comey speaks first.

“Thank you,” he says. His eyes are soft and there’s a hint of a smile and Andy takes another breath. “I can take it from here,” he continues. “You should go and clean yourself up.”

Andy nods slowly. He can’t bring himself to speak, so instead he just nods again and walks straight to the bathroom, washing his hands and his face repeatedly until his face is no longer pink and he can think straight.

He doesn’t think he’s been able to think straight for days now.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have a briefing right before lunch, and it’s a miracle that Andy is so good at briefing because he can’t stop looking at Mr. Comey. At his hands folded across the desk, at his mouth when he takes a slow sip of water, at his fingers when he scribbles down a note or two.

Andy really can’t stop staring and this is a serious problem.

He’s leaving right after this briefing, right as Mr. Comey’s usual lunch period is supposed to begin, and they’re on their way back to their office and Andy is just about to invite Mr. Comey out for lunch, when something happens.

There’s someone standing outside of Mr. Comey’s office – Benjamin Wittes, a friend of Mr. Comey’s. He’s come here before and usually, Andy is perfectly fine with it since they’re friends and everyone should spend time with their friends.

But there’s the way that Mr. Comey is looking at Wittes, smiling brightly, the exhaustion slipping from his frame and making him stand even taller, and Wittes smiles back.

And Andy feels something fall in his chest.

It’s all he can think about while he’s biking back home – not the Russia investigation, not any counterterrorism efforts – just the way Mr. Comey was smiling at Wittes. Smiling in a way that he’s never smiled before – at least, not around Andy.

He wonders what they do. If Mr. Comey presses Wittes against a wall and grabs his face and kisses him. If they fall into a bed together and jerk each other off and fuck each other and laugh and smile and kiss and –

Andy narrowly misses a tree. He stops his bike and takes a deep breath, shaking his head and staring up at the sky.

 _This is a serious problem_ , he thinks. _You might be in love._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Everyone in the Bureau said, when Mr. Comey was preparing to leave for the hearing, that they would continue on with business as usual while he was out. So, of course, the moment Mr. Comey leaves, all the channels on every TV are turned to CNN and everyone waits with bated breath to see what would be said.

Andy waits with them, of course. People have their phones and laptops out in rooms with TVs in them, idly doing work, but once the hearing starts, everything seems to stop.

Mr. Comey looks so small on screen, Andy thinks, just like he did last time. But he seems to be more animated than ever and responds to the questions from the senators less like the professional FBI Director that he usually is outside the Bureau and more like the man he is within the Bureau.

Everyone’s eyes are on the screen and it feels like they’re all silently cheering him on.

Andy groans, though, as do some others, when Mr. Comey exaggerates on the exact nature of the information and details from the case with Huma Abedin’s laptop, and a couple of agents get up to go and plan out an amended statement for when Mr. Comey returns and realizes he made a mistake.

Except when Mr. Comey returns, he heads straight into his office and doesn’t come out. His chief of staff keeps everyone out, and Andy all but gives up on getting a chance to talk with Mr. Comey about the Russia probe and the slight inaccuracy of his comments at the hearing. That is, until he gets a text from Mr. Comey, asking him to come into the office.

He doesn’t knock when he gets there, just steps inside and slowly closes the door behind him. The lights are all shut off but the windows are open and the light from outside pours in, illuminating the side of Mr. Comey’s face as he stares outside. He looks so tired.

“Sir?” Andy says, carefully.

Mr. Comey doesn’t look over, just raises a hand and gestures him over, and Andy heads over. Mr. Comey is leaned a little against the window, enough so that Andy is roughly the same height as him right now. A few moments go by in silence as they both just stare out the window, until Mr. Comey turns to face him and Andy looks back.

“I don’t think I ever told you how much I appreciate your company, Andy,” Mr. Comey says. His voice is low and careful, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to,” Andy replies, over the developing lump in his throat.

Mr. Comey shakes his head, and then he’s leaning forward and his hand is on Andy’s face and their lips touch and they’re kissing. It’s just a chaste kiss, soft and deliberate with so much meaning behind it. Andy’s eyes close and he sighs into it.

It lasts a few seconds and it lasts a lifetime, and they pull apart slowly. Their faces are still together and Andy can see his glasses reflected in Mr. Comey’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Mr. Comey says. “For everything.”

Andy nods. He doesn’t have any words left. The kiss took them all away.

Mr. Comey goes back to looking out the window and Andy does the same, and they stay there for as long as they can. There’s a certain finality to this moment, for reasons that Andy can’t quite understand and he doesn’t quite want to.

He reaches out and brushes his fingers against Mr. Comey’s, and they just stand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Comey is fired. Andy becomes the Acting Director. He gains access to all of Mr. Comey’s files and memos.

The first thing he does is get the memos to him.

 _You don’t have to avenge me_ , Mr. Comey – _Jim_ – texts him, once the first _New York Times_ article is released.

 _You’re a more honorable man than he is. You don’t deserve this_ , Andy sends back. There’s no reply but there doesn’t have to be. Andy knows what he’s doing.

This is the beginning of the end for the President. He’s sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact - Andrew McCabe bikes the 35 miles from his home in Virginia to his office in D.C.


End file.
